In the Wine Cellar
by Edward Carson
Summary: Carson and Barrow get locked in the wine cellar for an evening and have to talk to each other. It's not something either one of them really enjoys.


**In The Wine Cellar***

"Bloody hell."

Thomas Barrow leaned into the heavy oak door before him and closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again, the handle would give way at his touch and the door magically spring open. Of course it didn't. He had to resort to pounding on the door with a fist and bellowing for the hallboy. That was futile, too. The boy had pushed the door closed, pulled out the key, and gone on his merry way, leaving Thomas stranded on the wrong side of the thickest door in Downton Abbey. And, worse luck, he wasn't alone.

Steeling himself for the repercussions, Thomas squared his shoulders and descended the wide stone steps he had raced up only moments ago in a vain effort to arrest the hallboy's act. He moved slowly because, at the bottom of the staircase, Mr. Carson was waiting for him.

Carson didn't wait for Thomas to make an announcement. "We're locked in," he assumed.

Although he was the butler of Downton Abbey and had been for a few months now, Thomas felt the authority of his position sliding away. As irritating as that was, such was the effect Mr. Carson had on him. "Yes," he said curtly, and then felt obliged to explain. "Ever since he got here, I've been on him to close doors and put things away. This is the only time he's actually done it." He spoke ruefully. It was a fine time for the hallboy, Alan, to develop due diligence.

"Not, then, perhaps the wisest choice for a hallboy," Carson said disdainfully.

Thomas did not try to disguise his impatience in replying. "There isn't _any_ choice these days, Mr. Carson. It's factories and shops that draw the boys now. Service gets the dregs." Mr. Carson knew as much, but Thomas could tell he didn't quite agree, that he thought that if _he_ were still in charge, he'd be able to find some more competent prospect. He expected the former butler to say so.

"And where's he off to?" Carson asked instead.

Thomas shrugged. "Probably to have a nap in the boot room. I doubt he'll come looking for me. But I'll find him when we get out of here." There was a threatening note in his voice. He had never suffered fools gladly.

In other days, Carson might have felt it necessary to berate Thomas at length for the lapse of judgment that had led to their predicament, but now he let it go. The thing was done. They were locked in the cellar. No amount of criticism was going to get them out any sooner. "Well," he said, "no doubt someone will be along soon." He drew out his pocket watch and beneath the glare of one of the electrical bulbs that dangled from the ceiling, checked the time. "Mrs. Patmore will be back from her half day in time to make dinner."

"She's not making dinner tonight," Thomas said, speaking calmly even as he lit the fuse of another explosion.

"Not for the family, no," Carson agreed. The Crawleys were all out for tea and dinner. It was the reason Barrow had chosen today for a prolonged consultation in the wine cellar. The butler didn't often get such an expanse of time to devote to a special project. Carson had been pleased that Barrow wanted to spend that valuable time on an intensive seminar on wines and wine management, and had readily agreed to it.

"Not for the staff either," Thomas said.

Carson stared at him. "But someone will be around."

Thomas sighed. "Knowing the family would all be out today, I gave the staff leave to make their own plans. Mrs. Patmore is having supper with Daisy and Mr. Mason at Yew Tree Farm. Andy's there, too. Miss Baxter was joining Mr. Molesley at his father's. The Bateses were going to have dinner together in Ripon, their first night away from the baby, I think. And ..."

"Mrs. Carson is babysitting for them," Carson finished with a growl. That last he'd known about, but he hadn't put the rest together because it hadn't been important to him. "So when _may_ we expect to get out of here, Mr. Barrow?" he demanded.

Thomas shrugged. "Mrs. Patmore usually checks the kitchen before she goes to bed," he said. "And she's unlikely to have a _late_ night at Yew Tree Farm. I'm afraid no one's likely to miss us for some time," he added.

" _You_ , perhaps," Carson said sharply. "But Mrs. Carson will miss _me_. And be worrying."

The other man's agitation did not move Thomas. "She knows what you were doing this afternoon. She'll know where to look."

"She won't want to be traipsing up here in the dark!" Carson snapped.

They lapsed into silence.

So they were locked in and for a while. This prospect gave a different cast to the wine cellar. Neither man had given much thought to his surroundings while they worked, but now, as they faced the possibility of several hours here, it came over distinctly inhospitable. Wine racks abounded and there was a stand-up desk, but there were no chairs.

"This is going to be pleasant," Carson murmured darkly, not quite under his breath.

"You can say that again," Thomas added, at the same volume.

They exchanged aggravated looks. Thomas wheeled abruptly and disappeared among the wine racks. Carson heard him rummaging around and then he appeared again, dragging two packing crates with him.

"At least we can sit," he said, handing one over to the other man. The crates were sturdy and, when turned on end, served the purpose, although somewhat inadequately for two such tall men.

"Thank you." Carson had not sat on anything so makeshift since his days in the theatre, but this was an instance of beggars not being choosers, and he was grateful for it.

And there they sat. Silence descended once more.

Thomas rebuked himself. He'd known the hallboy had shortcomings. But he'd been the most likely of an undistinguished lot. He was also the first person Thomas had hired, and he'd flattered himself that he could properly train the lad up, much as Mr. Carson had done with numerous hallboys before him. But there was a difference between an eager worker with aptitude and an ill-suited candidate who was only available because no shop would have him. Thomas would have to cast his net more widely. Or perhaps hallboys were an extravagance with which houses like Downton would have to learn to live without. Thomas didn't mind the march of progress, for the most part. But when it dealt his already meagre staff another blow, he resented it.

Carson's mind had drifted away from the wine cellar and beyond Downton Abbey, settling instead on that most pleasant of preoccupations - his wife. In this moment, however, thoughts of her disturbed him. He'd planned to finish with Mr. Barrow and the wine cellar, and then join Elsie at the Bateses' cottage. They were to have had supper together and would have spent an enjoyable evening by the fire with little Robbie tucked into bed upstairs. Elsie would be wondering where he'd got to, worried when he didn't show up, and unable to go looking for him because she was responsible for Robbie. He didn't want her to be worrying. His impatient gaze fixed on Mr. Barrow. It was a ridiculous situation. In thirty years' oversight of Downton, _he'd_ never locked himself into the wine cellar. He scowled.

Thomas read the look for what it was and ignored it. He wished he had his cigarettes. There was nothing like a cigarette to while away the time, especially when conversation - of any sort - was scarce.

"Did you ever smoke?" he asked abruptly.

Carson was startled by the unexpected question. "No."

"No? Why not?" Everyone smoked, Thomas thought, at least at some point in their lives.

"' _A custome lothsome to the eye, hatefull to the Nose, harmefull to the braine, dangerous to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof, neerest resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomelesse_ ,'" quoted Carson in a strong, deliberate voice.

"What?"

"King James I. It's what he wrote about the habit of smoking tobacco, a custom then only recently imported from North America," Carson replied. "Three centuries ago." A smug look came over him. He was proud to have remembered the lines.

"Who knows that?" Thomas was unimpressed.

"I went to a grammar school, Mr. Barrow," Carson said coolly.

"And King James came for a visit, did he?"

Carson ignored the bad joke. "I just know the quotation. With regard to smoking, I listened to my father. He always railed against it and I absorbed his views on it."

Well, that was food for thought. "Did you always do what your father told you?" Thomas knew this was an obnoxious question, but at least it was conversation. And was not Mr. Carson's flaunting of his education also obnoxious?

"I often followed his advice," Carson said soberly. "I respected him, Mr. Barrow. We were seldom at odds. I think of that as a good thing." He stared at the butler, willing him to challenge that. Carson knew very little of Barrow's personal history, but he'd occasionally wondered about the tone of the relationship between the Manchester clockmaker and his son.

"Oh, indeed," Thomas said, more agreeably than he felt. He was not going to pick a fight about this.

Carson took the words at face value and relented. "And he was very much afraid of fire, especially around the stables."

Thomas nodded, understanding. He knew somewhat more about Mr. Carson's background - that he had been raised on the estate and that his father had been the chief groom. It would have been pleasant to have grown up here, Thomas mused. Life on a great estate appealed to Thomas. Its primary disadvantage from his perspective - and it was a major one - was the isolation, so acute for a man of his nature. Difference was more noticeable in the country and there were next to no opportunities to be who he was.

Silence reigned again for a while.

"What were you going to do for your dinner?" Carson asked at length. "If Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were away," he added.

"Go down t' pub," Thomas replied. The thought of a nice steak and kidney pie or a Cornish pasty made his mouth water. "I could use a pint right now," he said unthinkingly.

"Well, we're not short on drink."

Thomas's eyes darted to the other man's. "What?"

Carson gestured around them. "We're in a wine cellar, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas hesitated. The unauthorized consumption of wine - Mr. Carson had called it theft when he'd caught Thomas at it - was a sensitive issue between them.

"I'm certain His Lordship wouldn't begrudge us," Carson went on, "especially as it might help keep the chill off our bones."

"Are you cold, then?"

It was deliberately cool in the wine cellar, though Thomas had never taken note of the temperature. Visits here were usually brief ones. Now he realized that the heavy material of his butler's livery offered him some protection, whereas Mr. Carson was more lightly attired.

"I'm fine."

Mr. Carson would say that in any circumstances, Thomas knew. His attention returned to the wine. "Red or white?" he asked lightly.

"Red, of course," Carson said with a scowl, as though this were self-evident. And perhaps it was. So he _was_ cold then, Thomas surmised. Magnanimously, he gestured toward the wine. "What will it be, Mr. Carson?"

But Carson only shrugged. "It's your cellar."

This irritated Thomas a little. Although his familiarity with the wines had grown exponentially since he'd become butler, Thomas knew that Mr. Carson still knew the cellar much better than he did. _It's a test_. He made an exasperated sound. And yet he had confidence in himself, too, and, after thinking for a moment, went straight to a rack and plucked from it a Chateau Lafitte. Affecting his professional mien, he held the bottle out for inspection.

Carson glanced at the label and then nodded. It was an appropriate choice and he was not unimpressed with Barrow's facility.

"Would you like to do the honours?" Thomas produced a corkscrew from his pocket.

But Carson shook his head. "Better you do it. My hand is not to be relied upon."

Although it was the reason why Mr. Carson was no longer the butler of Downton Abbey, Thomas occasionally forgot about his ailment. He deftly applied the tool to the bottle and pulled the cork with a gratifying pop. It was only then he realized they faced another challenge.

"No glasses," he pointed out. "We'll have to drink from the bottle."

The grimace on Mr. Carson's face spoke of his distaste more effectively than words ever could. Thomas wondered if Mr. Carson was disdainful of drinking from a bottle or whether it was the prospect of sharing it with his companion that turned him so sour. Abruptly Thomas retreated back into the wine racks and retrieved a second bottle.

"I'll reimburse His Lordship myself," he said, holding out the first bottle.

"Let it breathe for a while," Carson directed.

Thomas laughed. "Even in our predicament, still following the niceties, Mr. Carson!"

This elicited a withering glance from the other man. "We're in no hurry."

Thomas was not about to wait. He raised his own bottle and took a sip. It was _not_ the best way to drink wine and Thomas would himself have scorned it in any other circumstances, too. But it had a satisfying taste.

Carson _did_ recoil a little from this vulgar display and was not at all certain he could bring himself to do it, despite the chill he felt. But his attention was drawn to Barrow's hand. The gloved one.

"What happened?"

Thomas saw the direction of Carson's gaze. "A war wound," he said, somewhat bemused. Mr. Carson knew that as well as anyone.

"But...how did it happen?"

It was a simple question, but it shook Thomas. No one had asked in years. Even then, back when he'd returned to Downton after his recovery, few had bothered. Soldiers tended not to ask for details. Few of them needed to hear about that which they'd already seen in abundance. And at Downton, of those who knew nothing of the horrors of war, only Miss O'Brien had expressed any interest. Of course, he'd been assigned to the hospital at first and by the time he'd moved into a supervisory position in the convalescent home run out of Downton, his war wound was an old story. But there was more to it than that. No one at Downton really cared. Except for Lady Sybil.

Staring at Barrow's hand as though he were seeing it for the first time, Carson wondered by he'd never asked about it before. Even out of curiosity, if not personal interest. Barrow was one of too few young men in the village who'd come back to them from the nightmare of the Great War. Merely surviving the carnage warranted acknowledgment.

"Bullet ricocheted," Thomas said abruptly, the lie falling smoothly from his lips. It was the story he had manufactured to cover the deliberate exposure of his hand to the enemy. He'd never wavered in it. Never told anyone the truth.

"Do you ... think about it very much?"

Thomas frowned, puzzled. His wound?

"The war," Carson clarified. He spoke deliberately, watching Barrow carefully. He'd never spoken to anyone about the war. It was odd, really. He'd been preoccupied with the exactions of life at Downton itself during the conflict, and then afterward, well, it was over and the sooner back to normal the better. And the young men hadn't seemed eager to discuss it anyway.

It was a subject about which Thomas found it difficult to be nonchalant. "I try not to," he said quietly. "It's not something that bears thinking about." He thought Mr. Carson might be about to ask that dreadful question, _What was it like_? It wasn't _like_ anything. There was nothing to compare or liken it to. It was impossible to explain to someone who hadn't known it and if they did, then it didn't need explaining.

"You volunteered. In 1914."

Mr. Carson had gone in an unexpected direction. "Yes," Thomas said cautiously.

"I never understood why. Surely it wasn't _just_ to avoid getting sacked for stealing, was it?"

Thomas stared at him. "Run away to _that?_ Are you kidding me?"

Carson was not put off by Barrow's indignation. He could well believe that Thomas had done just that. "Patriotism, then?"

Thomas scowled at the sarcasm in the other man's voice, more irritated because, of course, it was _not_ patriotism and love of King and country that had prompted him to join, but precisely that which Mr. Carson was implying - a determined effort at self-preservation. Thomas had filed an application with the Army Medical Corps even before the war had been declared so as to avoid frontline duty. He'd anticipated working in a hospital in England or, worst case, at a medical unit behind the lines. Instead he'd ended up as a stretcher bearer in the very trenches he'd sought to avoid - in the line of fire and without any means to defend himself. He'd lived in a constant state of terror, the like of which he had never known.

"I served in the trenches for two years, Mr. Carson," he said stiffly, hardly moving his lips. "I don't have to explain myself to anyone."

Carson yielded, almost contritely. "So you did. I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow." Whatever Barrow had been or done at Downton, his war service commanded respect.

For a long moment, neither said anything. Carson did not like awkward silences. If they could not find anything to talk about, then this would be an agonizing evening. The war had seemed a likely subject, but he'd started badly. He cast about for a related topic.

Thomas found it for him. "We should have gone to Berlin," he said abruptly.

This was possibly the most intriguing thing Carson had ever heard from Barrow. "Really? But you were happy enough at the armistice. I remember your reaction to the news when His Lordship told us about it in the servants' hall."

"I know," Thomas said, nodding. "I _was_ glad. Seeing the wounded in the trenches and then at the hospital, and even here at Downton, of course I was glad the bloodletting had stopped. But it's no good to have made peace with the Germans if they don't stay down." There was a fierceness in Thomas's voice. He didn't talk politics much, didn't have the opportunity, really. Perhaps the wine, which was quite good, was loosening his tongue.

"And you think they won't," Carson surmised.

Thomas shrugged. "You read the papers, Mr. Carson. You see how they've complained about a draconian peace at Versailles." The edge in Thomas's tone indicated what he thought about that. "And how soft men over here agree with them. We beat them, and now they're claiming they got stabbed in the back..."

"The _Dolchstosse_ ," Carson murmured, for he _did_ read the papers.

"Yeah, and how they weren't properly beaten. If we'd gone to Berlin, they wouldn't have any doubts."

"So you're not in favour of retreating from Versailles?"

"No," Thomas said firmly, and then, with a sidelong glance at Mr. Carson, "but they may be inclined that way upstairs," he added, curious to see the other's reaction. "What do you think?"

Carson knew very well that Barrow was baiting him with the family, but his own feelings were so strong in the matter that he had no compunction about expressing them. "They started the war and they lost it. I agree with both the war guilt clause and reparations." ******

The stillness that followed this declaration was, if not comfortable, then at least agreeable.

"I'll drink to that." Thomas upended the bottle once more. "You haven't touched yours, Mr. Carson. I'm sure it's breathed enough by now."

Carson ignored Barrow's smirk and tentatively picked up his bottle, more concerned about this suspension of manners than a possible spasm in his hand. Alcohol often quelled the tremors. He brushed off his inhibitions and raised the bottle to his lips. The effect was pleasant, the warmth radiating through his chest.

They drank their wine and stared into the gloomy corners and every once in a while glanced the other's way. They had worked together for years and yet had so little to say. Theirs was a closeness of proximity, rather than a meeting of minds or an emotional bond.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Mr. Carson put down the wine bottle and then rub his arms, probably unconsciously. So he _was_ cold. Well, there wasn't anything to do about it. There were no blankets or sacks or ... Something stirred in the back of his mind. Perhaps there _was_ something. He put down his own bottle and got to his feet, drawing Mr. Carson's attention.

"Did you hear something upstairs?" he asked hopefully.

Thomas shook his head. He went, not to the stairs, but back into the storage area, returning a moment later with two more packing crates.

"What are you doing?"

Thomas took the crate he'd been sitting on and put it back-to-back with Mr. Carson's. Then he tipped over the two new crates onto their sides. "You can put your feet on this," he said, nudging one of them Mr. Carson's way. "It'll take the strain off your back." He put the final crate in the same position in relation to his own crate.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Carson demanded again.

"It's getting a bit cool in here," Thomas said briskly, avoiding pointing out that it was Mr. Carson who was cold. "And I was just thinking about a passage in _King's Solomon's Mines_ where a party of adventurers are in a cave on a mountaintop and freezing. So they sit back to back to keep warm" As he spoke, Thomas sat down again, now with his back to Mr. Carson's, bracing himself with his feet upon the prostrate crate.

It was an awkward moment. Carson started when Thomas's back aligned with his. Had they ever touched except as they passed keys to one another? Oh, there was that time when Carson had pulled Thomas out of a brawl with William Mason, but that was before the war. He shifted uneasily at this unaccustomed contact.

On the other side, Thomas rolled his eyes. As if he were any more enthusiastic about this! But it _was_ more comfortable with the back support of the other. Mr. Carson was a little more broad-shouldered than Thomas, but they were of similar height and were, in fact, well matched. And their body warmth would soon make itself felt, which was the point.

As discomfited as he was, another thought occurred to Carson. " _You've_ read _King Solomon's Mines_?"

"Who hasn't?" Thomas said immediately. "It's my favourite novel." Then he paused. "I may not have gone to a grammar school, Mr. Carson, but I _can_ read."

"I didn't mean... Only I've never seen you with a book."

"We've not much time to read novels in our work, do we? But I read at night." Again he paused. "Have you read it then?"

"No need to sound so surprised, Mr. Barrow. I like to relax, too."

Thomas shrugged. "I didn't think it would be your sort. All darkest Africa and dark-skinned warriors and witchcraft thwarting sound British men."

Carson only made an exasperated sound in response to this jab.

Once more, conversation languished. Thomas finished his wine, moving slightly to one side so that when he put his head back it didn't collide with Mr. Carson's, and then reached down to put the bottle on the floor. When he leaned into Mr. Carson again, he found less resistance. Either the wine had had an effect or Mr. Carson was getting used to this.

Carson was thinking about Elsie. Everything would easily be sorted out once someone found them, but until then she would be worried. There wasn't much leeway in their uneventful lives for things to go wrong. He had only to walk from the Abbey to the Bateses' cottage, which was adjacent to their own, and the path was clear. But he might have had a heart attack or something. Were he in her shoes, he would be very agitated. He could only hope that her innate common sense and decidedly phlegmatic disposition would allow her to put her concerns at bay.

Mr. Barrow's idea was a good one. Carson could feel now the warmth of the other man's body and was grateful for it. He still had to rub his hands together to deter a chill there, but that was easy enough. His mind turned once more to Mr. Barrow and the war.

"Was France any ... better ... for you?"

The odd hitch in Mr. Carson's voice caught Thomas's attention. "What do you mean?"

Carson proceeded tentatively. The point wasn't really about the war, but about Barrow's ... about the way Barrow was. This was a topic Carson had never voluntarily broached before, but perhaps the wine - he had almost finished his bottle, too - had had an effect. He tried again.

"You said ... once ... that it was hard for you to ... get it right. To know if ... another man...," he grimaced at the thought of this, "...felt as you did." He was alluding to a conversation they'd had years ago, after that incident with James Kent. He was silent for a moment, letting these words settle. "I only wondered if it were easier ... in France."

Thomas smirked. "Because all Frenchmen are queer, you mean," he said. He felt Mr. Carson's back stiffen predictably at his blunt remark.

"Well, not _all_ of them," Carson said, mildly indignant. "Only they're quite ... flagrant ... about everything, the French. I only wondered if it were easier for you there." He'd been to France, spent nine months there back in the last century, studying wines. And been quite put off by the free flow of emotional expression.

It was an interesting question coming from Mr. Carson. Thomas considered it. "Surrounded by hordes of red-blooded Englishmen whose only relief from terror was the prospect of scoring with the local women? No. I had to ... pretend _more_. It doesn't do for men to know who you are - what you are - when you're living cheek-by-jowl with them."

"Ah. I see." Carson nodded in understanding. "Well. That's how it is in service, too, isn't it?"

This evoked an irritated sigh from Thomas. "So where _can_ a man like me find a place, then, Mr. Carson? What are we supposed to do? Find a cave out on the moors and live like hermits? Don't you know, somewhere, sometime other men are going to have to deal with us!"

"And we do, Mr. Barrow," Carson said sharply. "You were never turned out of Downton. And never would have been on account of ... _that_."

"Are you saying you never wanted to sack me?" Thomas demanded.

"A dozen times and more," Carson countered. "But not because of _that_."

Well, they'd embarked on it now.

"Did you know," Thomas asked, shifting a little so that he could glance over his shoulder, "right from the beginning, about me?"

"No. Of course not. I _wouldn't_ have hired you if I had."

Thomas nodded, his assumptions confirmed. "Of course not."

"And I won't apologize for that," Carson said firmly. "I was managing a staff of young men - footmen, hallboys, valets. It's a volatile enough mixture in itself without adding dynamite in the bargain. It's nothing personal, Mr. Barrow."

"No?" There was a tightness in Thomas's voice. "When _did_ it become personal, Mr. Carson? When you _did_ figure it out?"

But Carson would not be drawn on this. "No, as a matter of fact. So you can take that chip off your shoulder. It's never been personal."

Thomas laughed humourlessly. "Oh, tell me another one."

"I neither liked you nor disliked you when I hired you," Carson said evenly. "I was interested in a man who was capable of carrying out the duties of a footman and who had some ... style. You fit the bill." The compliment was almost grudgingly admitted. Carson pressed on. "A butler does not - _cannot_ \- let personal considerations or feelings enter into relationships with the staff. As no doubt you have recently become aware."

"Really," Thomas said drily. "Then how did you end up married to the housekeeper?" If Mr. Carson could tread on delicate territory, then so could he. He knew he'd done so, too, when the other man did not immediately reply.

"Thirty years, Mr. Barrow." There was heat in Mr. Carson's words. "We'd known each other for _thirty_ years _._ And that's different."

"Only I thought you were satisfied in your work. That you took a professional pride in it."

Carson glanced over his shoulder again, puzzled by this turn in the conversation. "I do. I did. What makes you think I didn't?" He was affronted by the suggestion.

"You got married."

This bewildered the older man. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"If your work was so satisfying, if it was enough for you, why did you get married?" Thomas went on doggedly. This was something that had been on his mind for a long time, ever since the housekeeper and the former butler had announced their engagement.

This question gave Carson pause. He didn't know how to answer it off the top of his head. He had to think about it. Finally he came to it. "I got married, Mr. Barrow," he said quietly, "because I fell in love." He let the words sink in, felt Barrow shake his head as if in disbelief. "I know it's difficult for a man in the prime of his life, as you are, to imagine it," Carson went on, almost a little sarcastically, "but the heart does not stop _feeling_ just because the body ages. I am testimony to the fact that an old man is as susceptible to love as anyone else. However ridiculous that may seem to you," he added.

"It's not..." Thomas didn't know what he thought of this emotional revelation on Mr. Carson's part. "I don't ... think you're ridiculous."

"Don't you."

Thomas thought for a moment. "No. I don't."

Carson decided to leave it alone. "I still don't see the connection to what you said," he said, perplexed.

"I thought," Thomas said, "that you were satisfied with your work, with your life as it was. That it was possible to ... live on your own, as a single man and be ... content. You always seemed contented with your lot." This was a reluctant admission, though true as far as Thomas was concerned. He had thought of Mr. Carson that way.

"I was," Carson said simply. "I didn't go looking for love, Mr. Barrow. There wasn't any great gaping whole in my life that needed filling. It just ... happened." The wonder of it still astonished Carson, and humbled him. Elsie was the greatest blessing of his life, but she wasn't something he had thought missing until he had her and had to confront the possibility of one day losing her again. His thoughts shifted to Mr. Barrow. "You're yearning for something you haven't got," he said quietly, "instead of working with what you do have."

"That's not very comforting," Thomas said roughly, "especially coming from a man who has everything."

That made Carson laugh. "I don't have the work that sustained me for my whole life," he said boldly. "That wasn't just something I did to earn my keep, Mr. Barrow. I loved it." And a wistfulness seized on him as he said this. "I loved it," he said again. "It was who I was."

Thomas was not moved. "That happens to everyone. It's a natural process. You get old." He amended himself. "Older."

Carson sighed. "Another truism of growing old, Mr. Barrow: that it happens to everyone and is a natural process does not make it any easier to bear. No more so than my telling you that love fell unexpectedly in my lap when I was practically in my dotage comforts you. It _just_ happened."

"Love fell in your lap," Thomas repeated. "Lucky you."

"Yes," Carson said firmly. "Lucky me." It was a sobering thought how much his happiness owed to luck.

For what seemed like a long while, neither of them said anything. Carson wondered if he could fall asleep like this. He'd slept sitting up before, but this was a slightly precarious position - if either of them slumped to one side, they'd both go crashing to the ground. But he'd spent uncomfortable nights before. It wouldn't kill either of them.

Thomas wished more than ever that he had a cigarette. In the past he had often had a pack tucked into his jacket pocket, but this was a practice he'd given up on becoming butler. He didn't smoke in the butler's pantry out of some possibly misguided sense of appropriate behaviour and so left his cigarettes in his outside coat pocket. Not that he'd have been able to smoke down here in any case. The wine cellar, even more than the butler's pantry, was a sacrosanct environment.

His thoughts drifted back over their conversation and snagged on an unfinished element.

"Admit it," he said insistently, "you favoured the other footmen."

These sharp words roused Carson and he frowned grumpily. "The other footmen didn't lie, steal, or tell stories on other members of staff," he said so quickly it seemed that this litany was in ever-ready access in his brain. He gestured around the wine cellar, not that Barrow could see the movement. "You remember stealing wine, don't you?"

Thomas made an exasperated noise. "That was a long time ago."

Carson turned his head to the side. "You asked when I began to dislike you. It started when you _stole_ wine from the house. You know as well as I do that theft is the most serious breach of trust in our work. And then you not only lied about it, which was understandable if not honourable as it was a sacking offense, but tried to pin it on Mr. Bates, both to escape justice yourself and to rid yourself of him. These are not actions calculated to win favour in any circles, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas shrugged impatiently. "It was a long time ago," he reiterated. "I've changed."

That evoked a sniff of disbelief from the other man. "Have you now."

"Yes, not that you've given me credit for it."

"You are the butler of Downton Abbey, Mr. Barrow," Carson observed. "That seems evidence to the contrary in my books." But he wasn't finished. "It's very hard to restore trust. Better all around never to have lost it in the first place."

"I was foolish, all right? Stupid. But I tried to change. And you ... thwarted me at every turn."

"Me?" Carson sat upright, turning slightly so that he could look at Barrow, sitting there so rigidly, as if _he'd_ been insulted. "Don't blame _me_ for your behaviour. It didn't stop there. You bullied the junior staff..."

"William could take care of himself. He went to _war_ on his own."

"And Daisy."

Thomas made a dismissive sound.

" _And_ threw your weight around when opportunity offered during the war."

"I was running a military convalescent home. That needed some exercise of authority."

"You _abused_ that authority. And then there was the incident with James."

"It was a misunderstanding."

Carson hesitated. "It is the only episode where I'll agree there were mitigating circumstances."

"That's all in the past," Thomas said roughly, irritated by Mr. Carson's long memory.

"Really. What about harassing Anna over that foul Inspector's interest in her? And pressing Miss Baxter for information on the Bateses?"

"Molesley's got a big mouth."

"It isn't his fault either. The fact is, Mr. Barrow, you're never sorry for what you've done. You're only ever sorry you got called out about it. Why, even when Mrs. Carson and I were away in ... on..." _Our honeymoon_. He stumbled over the sudden presence of this personal moment in this conversation. "...in Scarborough, you embarrassed Mrs. Harding by bringing up her past at Downton. His Lordship told me that. I suppose _he's_ got a big mouth, too, does he?"

"She was putting on airs. Acting the hypocrite. You don't like that."

Carson waved this away as he sat back again, looking away from Barrow. "She wouldn't have been the first in Downton's dining room, even if she was. It's not your job to show everyone up. My point is, Mr. Barrow, even now that you've got the job, instead of admitting your past errors, you're still making excuses." There was a note of disgust in his voice.

Without reference to each other, they both folded their arms and looked in opposite directions. The silence that enveloped them now was a brittle one.

"Do you know," said Thomas after a while, "that you have never said one encouraging word to me in all my years at Downton? Not once have you said anything positive at all." It might have sounded self-pitying, but Thomas wasn't feeling sorry for himself. To him, this was merely a fact.

Carson considered for a long moment. "You're a talented cricket player," he said at last, and with the air of bestowing a great compliment.

Thomas snorted. "And that's the nicest thing you can think to say." He shook his head. He ought to have known better.

Carson turned his head towards Barrow. "I think you'd welcome such a compliment. And I daresay it's better than anything you could come up with about me."

Thomas said nothing.

Now it was Carson's turn to sniff in self-righteousness "Right," he said. "Why the wounded vanity, anyway? I had to learn to dislike you. You disliked me from the beginning."

Again Thomas did not reply. It was the truth.

"I thought as much." Carson was not hurt by this revelation, first because it was nothing new, and also because you had to care about someone to be hurt by their opinion of you.

"Why wouldn't I?" Thomas said suddenly. "You were like ... my father."

Carson rolled his eyes. "That's no compliment."

"No. It isn't," Thomas said soberly. "But I thought ... it didn't have to work out the same way."

"And has it?"

"Well, you don't like me either, it turns out. So yes, it has."

It was the wine talking. And the circumstances. He would never have said this otherwise. And yet he didn't regret it. Mr. Carson was the past now. It didn't matter what he thought.

For once, Carson had nothing to say in return.

Perhaps silence _was_ more comfortable than conversation, for neither felt the impulse to speak again. The light in the room did not change, day or night, consistent in the dimness of the low-wattage bulbs. But time played its own tricks, with hours seeming as long as days. Carson felt drowsy. He shifted a little to find a more comfortable position against Barrow, and allowed himself to doze. Thomas remained more alert, shifting his thoughts quite deliberately to the more prosaic tasks that awaited him once they were liberated from the cellar. Because of this, Thomas heard the sound first. Faint footsteps above them, a key scraping in a lock.

"Mr. Carson!" Thomas wanted to jump to his feet, but he turned around instead, making sure that the other man was awake and steady before doing so. Then he dashed up the stairs. The door was already opening.

Three people stood there: Mr. Bates, Mrs. Carson, and the hallboy, Alan. Bates was, as always, inscrutable. Mrs. Carson did look concerned. And the hallboy, Thomas was glad to see, had a sheepish look about him, possibly tempered with terror.

"Is Mr. Carson...?" Mrs. Carson hardly had the chance to finish her sentence.

"We've been locked in together," Thomas said, and he turned then and made his way back down the steps. Mr. Carson met him halfway and then they came up together.

"Mystery solved," Bates said calmly, and then withdrew. His function here had been to help Mrs. Carson find her husband. They could make their way home themselves.

When her eyes fell on her husband, Mrs. Carson did indeed look relieved. She held a hand out to him and he took it.

"You weren't worried, were you?" he said, giving her a smile.

"No," she said. But they both knew differently. And much as both would have liked a reassuring - and warm - hug from the other, out of habit they refrained. They were in the Abbey, after all, and there were others present. They could indulge their feelings more fully in the privacy of their own home.

"A moment," Carson murmured to his wife, and gestured for her to precede him into the passage. When she had done so, he turned toward Barrow.

The habits of command were hard to shake. He continued to expect, as a matter of course, the automatic deference of the staff at the Abbey and, to be honest, that of the villagers as well. And he felt entitled to the respect of the family. He had earned such regard over his decades of service and leadership at Downton. But other aspects persisted, too. It _was_ necessary to offer positive reinforcement, as well as tempered criticism to those under supervision, and Thomas, he had reluctantly to admit, was in the right on this.

"You were a good footman," he said, his words falling a little stiffly, not for lack of sincerity but rather because it _was_ difficult to compliment Thomas. "Always better than the rest. And a good valet and underbutler." He was looking a little beyond Thomas, not meeting his gaze, but then did raise his eyes to meet the other's directly. "You are a good butler, Mr. Barrow. I would not have supported His Lordship's suggestion - _even_ to ensure my own place on the estate - if I did not believe you were up to the mark."

Thomas said nothing. He believed Mr. Carson on this. The man had always put Downton first.

The moment passed.

"Right," Carson said. "I'll be getting on." He moved away.

The hallboy, who had been standing in the shadows, oblivious to the conversation because he was rather preoccupied with the storm he expected to descend on him at any moment, now stepped forward.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barrow," the boy said contritely. "I saw the open door and the key in the lock and didn't see you around. I know ... I _ought_ to have looked in the cellar. But I didn't think you'd be down there, what with the family not being here for dinner..."

"And what have you been up to, then?" Thomas asked curtly.

"Polishing silver, Mr. Barrow," the boy said promptly. "I've been in the workroom all evening."

Thomas wanted to light into the lad. But he didn't either. The long evening in the cellar had eroded his aggravation. The boy had made a mistake. Another one, admittedly. But surely he'd exhaust the possibilities sooner or later, and shape up. The boy nodded, allowed himself a quick smile of relief, and then dashed off.

Thomas stood still for a moment. His head ached a little. But he had no time for that now. He had work to do.

 ***Author's Note:** This one's for dustnik, who loves a frustrating conversation between Carson and Thomas, where she can cheer for her favourite and I can cheer for mine.

 **** A/N2.** These would be conventional views of men like Carson and Barrow about the 1919 Treaty of Versailles.


End file.
